Dear Sarla
people look at me
and all they see is you
I hate that
and it makes me hate myself
you make me want to die
and hell if my pain tolerance
were higher I swear that I
would cut them off myself
because all they see is my
outsides and my double D *******
and even if I carved the word
boy in all caps
into the soft plush of my ******
a little lump that is always too small
to be seen as an ***** *****
they would still only see the
******* shoved away in the back
of my dresser drawer
cuddled up next to my sports bras
that does nothing to hide my *******
and I have been living inside you
for ten long years
my ***** are ready to drop
I even started shaving the little
peach fuzz stache your father shamed
you into bleaching
I let my leg hair grow out
and willed the chest hair to grow
around my navel and then into
the fleshy V
that my hips create
all of my body hair grows freely now
to keep me warm
but mainly to spite you
and ****** what they see
when they look at me
eyes coming up from my crotch
to my chest
is the shadow of a girl
they see a beautiful blossoming
young woman
and yeah okay
I can see that too
you would have been beautiful
but I cut and snuffed out
your life in the middle of the
prime of your youth
I killed you
and have been in the hospital
three times because of this
because of you
and when my first hospital doctor
told me that my coming out was
just a diversion tactic
it felt like the week old cuts
on my wrist
opened up and all of you that
was left inside of me
bled out at his fancy shoed feet
you were pepto-bismol pink
and my empty husk filled up
with the blues of a thousand
unshed tears
I was a raging ocean of boy
my waves crashed onto your body
until you were drowned in it
and then you were gone
but when people look at me
all they see is you
and my blood is blue on the inside
but when they cut me open
they didn’t see the blues
they saw my ******
and my tubes
and the folds of my womanhood
hell yeah though
they still saw my fat
fat thighs
fat stomach
fat arms
fat fat fat
they still see my scars
and my crooked glasses
and my *******
people still ask if I have
a ****
as if my genitals are any of
their ******* business
and probably if I did
get surgery
my cosmetic scars would still
label me as a freak
I still wouldn’t be enough of a
man for them
my ***** would never be big enough
no man or woman would ever be
able to love me with the lights on
because hell
I’m still not able to pleasure myself
your body is a landscape
albeit a barren one
filled with mines
and I am too clumsy to
traverse it
your ******* only become ***** from
the cold and the only wetness in
your boxers is blood
and I am afraid to look at you
in the mirror
because even I can’t will something
to grow that wasn’t programmed
from the start
and even the friends that never
even knew you
they hold you over me
I’m not a boy because I haven’t
had The Surgery yet
what bathroom do I use
I don’t count as a boy because
of my huge ****
I can’t be a boy because
I like pink shorts
and the only things that have
change are my name
and my hair
I am a *****
a girly boy
but ****
I’m enough of a man for myself
I will never be a mother
and I will only let them ****
me like a man
the swaying of my *******
as I bend over a constant
reminder that I am wrong
but the only boyfriend
I’ve had since sixth grade
only asked me out because
he had a crush on you
I have to tell people that I am
a boy and remind them of the pronouns
that I use
over and over again
but technically I’m still a girl
well technically *******
honestly though Sarla
I wish people would be able to
see through to me
because when my light does
distinguish I don’t want to
be buried in a dress
don’t want my mother to cry
over her little girl
I think my sister would cry
for me though
she calls me her older brother
and once called my ****** a peen
she has come around
with flying colors
and she really gets it
I know that when it seems
like the world is against me
I will always have her
she sees through you
to me Priestly underneath
and Sarla
as long as I have her
I know I’ll be okay
it makes the wait for people
to come around a lot easier
I love my sister so
and someday you really will be gone
***** and period and all
I’m going to have a proper burial
for you when I get home
but until then
I’ll take good care of your body
and I know you’ll be watching over us
Love Priestly

So
you want the good old days back right
when it was only a few cents to
see a movie at the theater
and you could take your girl out
for a night on the town
for less than twenty dollars
and even having that much money
made you feel rich?

Fine
I can understand that
but that’s not what you mean
when you say that
like a parrot
it’s the same thing over and over again
make America great again
let America be America again
make this great fifty state
existence of ours
meet your impossible standards again

But
if you really want to make America “great”
and restore this land to it’s original beauty
then we need to clear out
give the land back to
the Native and Indigenous peoples
that were killed off by the white man and
their small pox and guns
and their constant need to expand

This
land is soaked in the blood
of many wars fought
but most of it is not white man’s blood

No
it is the blood of people
who just wanted to live
and raise their children
and meet their grandchildren
and keep the world beautiful

But
the white man just couldn’t stand for that
now could they?
especially if they weren’t in charge of it all
so the bodies fell
and then the trees
the animals and native plants
all shriveled and died under
their cruel hands

And
when that land would yield
no more grasses or plants
they moved on
and on and on
riding horses that were not theirs
bringing death and plague
and sadness
a sadness so profound
that even the earth herself
wept

So
you say you want
America to be America again
that you want to make our country
great again
but all you can think about is
war and genocide and
****** and death and pain

This
is not for the good of all
or even the few
it is for the good of the one
it is for the white man
and his money
and his towers
and the countless empty buildings
springing up
and choking what little life is left
out of the earth and the land
but the building’s will stay empty
because the rent is too high
and if you do not have money
or power
well then
your voice is not heard

And
you continue preaching
about how bigger walls
and gun towers
will keep everybody else out
but all I see when I look at you
is a spoiled rotten little brat
taking his sandbox toys home with him
so no other children can play with them
just because their clothes
are not as nice as yours
and their faces and hair
are not as scrubbed clean

But
the pigment has been leached
from your heart
and all that is left
is a shriveled up *****
it is not doing its job
because if you really did have a heart
you would understand that not everyone
shares your disillusioned vision
of a “greater”
a “reborn”
America

(And
I have met some pretty
evil men
I have seen them on TV
with their greasy selves
and empty promises
but you
well
you’re the ******* Antichrist)

i lick the tears
smudged on the lenses of my glasses
littered among the fingerprints
they taste like the salt that i pour
into my wounds on a daily basis

i don’t bother to
clean my glasses until i literally
can’t see out of them because of how
***** they are because it’s easier to face the world
when i can’t really see it

even when i can
see what is coming at me once again
i find it terrifying instead of comforting
it’s like being able to see the fist coming at you
but not being able to dodge it in time

as this metaphorical fist
connects with my face
i realize i haven’t had the chance to take
off my glasses before i was hit
and wonder vaguely if glass will make my eyesight worse

The most accurate tag on a blog post that I have ever used has been #transgenderRAGE.
2. The first hospital psych ward that I went to, they put a little sign on my room door that had PRIESTLY typed out on it with little puppies on the sign.
3. The orderlies there used male pronouns and referred to me as Priestly. Which made me feel better.
4. But, when I confronted the main doctor there, name rhymed with “cranberry,” he accused me of using identifying as a trans male as a diversion tactic.
5. I hated him, but bull shat my way through the sessions and got discharged after a week.
6. Months later, cue the next hospital visit. This time, it was just a diversion tactic so I didn’t off myself. Had my therapist drive me down there, I was surprised that she didn’t put on the child locks. Though, I never have thought of throwing myself from a moving vehicle.
7. In that ward, they just couldn’t accept the fact that, even though it wasn’t on my birth certificate, that my name was Priestly.
8. They used parenthesis, quotation marks, and had Sarla as my first name on my door.
9. My name is not a parenthesis.
10. My name is not a quotation mark.
11. My name is NOT Sarla. Though that is a beautiful name. San skrit for precious and all.
12. I am not a thing to be swept under the rug. I am not a girl. I am a boy. My name is Priestly. Do not down play me. I am not a “diversion tactic.” I am a living, breathing, feeling, beautiful boy.
13. My name is Priestly.

“do cats understand time?”
i ask my cat
scratching under her chin
“or do you just move
between food and sleeping?”
“it’s been a year since honey bear died”
“do you miss her too?”

my cat gave no answer
not even a purr
but her eyes looked sad
and then i remembered that
after honey bear died
she would lay right where
the dog’s bed used to be
as if she were keeping watch

i still find dog hair
on some of my clothes
and the whole back seat
of my stepdad’s truck
is blanketed in her fur
it still smells like her

so does the closet
out in the livingroom
where her bed used to be
and sometimes
i still think i can hear
her toenails on the floor
her little huffing breath
and i miss her so much

i have had dreams
where i go to the back door
and call her name
over and over
leaning out of the doorway
and into the dark night
but she never comes
she never comes
and i wait
calling her name over and over
but she never comes

it’s been exactly one year
since she passed
a whole **** year
and it doesn’t feel anywhere
near that long
it feels like yesterday

my chest hurts
my heart aches
i feel hollow
i miss my girl so much
but
i know she is no longer in pain
she can see
and run without her hips hurting
there are no more needles
no more vet visits
but i miss her so

i love her
i love her
i lover her

Soldier
a gruff voice
over and over
right between my ears
duck
swim
crawl
shoot
shoot
louder and louder
my brain shakes
from the weight of
his cruel words

No
I say
in a clear voice that
does not shake or stutter
this surprises me
again I say it
No No No No
I will not do those things
I do not know how to
shoot a gun
probably point it at myself
I am a human
I am not a hammer

Listen
he pleads quieter this time
sit down across from me
let me show you my scars
look how my eyes water
look how my hands shake
I am human too
I do not know how
to be a hammer
I am too gentle
only know how to hurt myself
don’t look at me

Sat
down across from him
I avert my eyes
taking quick furtive glances
now and then
I catalog his messy hair
his cracked and crooked glasses
the bad teeth from refusing
to get braces again and again
the blood crusted around his nostrils
turns my stomach painfully
looking at his scarred arms and blunt fingertips I say
you’re no soldier

A
quiet and broken whimper
escapes him then
surprising us both
on instinct he reaches across
the table for my hand
he smiles weakly when I oblige
and murmurs
no I am a soldier
but not like them
I do not fight for
my country or for theirs
I fight for us for you

Understandably
this takes me by surprise
and when I look at him
more closely I realize he
is not wearing fatigues
we are dressed the same
except his clothes are
more tattered and old
he is me
only more haggard
and there is no familiar outline
of bandages
under his shirt

Smiling
sadly he pulls up his shirt
revealing crescent moon scars
where his ******* should be
the only familiar thing
about his chest and torso
are the ******* and stretch marks
free lightning tattoos
because even losing weight
time and time again
gain and lose
an endless cycle
doesn’t make the past fade

Again
I protest
saying we are not alike
I am not at war
this is all some sick joke
how can we be soldiers
without guns and
tightly laced combat boots
where are my dog tags
and the rapidly beating heart
where is the screaming
where is the war
where is the war

Standing
up he walks around the table
taking my face in his hands
shockingly soft fingers and palms
after all these cruel years
leaning his face closer
the brush of chapped lips
against cold ears
he speaks to my very soul
his words loosen my heart strings
quickens my breathing
he whispers
it’s all in your head

Now
it is my turn to shake
with weak knees
I fall against him
bury my face in his shoulder
breathe in my own musk
we stand silently
******* flush up against flat chest
and then he steps closer
melds with me and we are one
I can feel his heart beat alongside mine
I feel much older
utterly alone

my mother
she makes my teeth chatter
she gives me chills
and not the good kind
all down my spine
a roiling in the pit of my stomach
right in the middle of my being
i can feel her there
sinking teeth and claws into my tender flesh
she so easily rips me aside
tears me asunder
i just want her to be proud of me
but i’ve forgotten how to be loveable
i don’t know how to make her proud of me
it is a losing battle
when she doesn’t even love or accept me
i don’t know what to do
she stomps on my fragile psyche
she makes me want to die
i just need
selfishly want
my mother to love me
why can’t
why won’t
she love me

i will stick to your teeth
am i spicy
or am i sweet
either way i will
bring back memories that
will make you cry

back when it was just
you and your little girl
and there wasn’t enough money
for a beach trip
but you still bought her taffy anyway
and the two of you sat on the
front porch
watching the world move by
and you gently washed the
taffy off your daughter’s face

but when your little girl
became too big to hold
when she squirmed away from your touch
and screamed about the bows
in her hair
you wondered where your baby girl
had gone
and it was hard to love her
because she was a stranger
to you
and to herself

and now your little girl is gone
leaving an arrogant
angry and impatient boy in her place
but ******
he learned it all from watching you

and now this boy
wearing your little girl’s body
eats a bowlful of taffy
trying to fill the black hole
that you left in the middle of his chest

is this boy spicy
or is he sweet
he sticks to your teeth
dries out your throat
makes your stomach hurt
and you resent him
for taking your little girl away

i pour your name
into my paper cuts
not self inflicted
but i still pick the scabs
because it’s a blood flow
that i can control

and my ****** writing
i have known this for a while
doesn’t make this any better
but maybe the tissues i send you
smeared with blood and tears and snot
will change your mind about it and me

i am a selfish
person down to my very core
i cover it up with empathy
and the occasional backhanded compliment
never to you always to myself
but ****** i want everybody to stay

when i say i
love you i really mean it
my love runs deeper than the selfish
need to never be alone
because love is all you need
besides the other necessities

i am my father’s son
born up out of a grieving mother
that did not want a child
not a baby that needed to be fed
and nursed and changed and loved
she did not know how to be a mother
perhaps she was too young
but even i stopped believing that lie years ago
because even i know
with no intention of having children of my own
(too afraid that i’ll turn out like her)
that a mother’s love should not have an expiration date but more often than not it does

and for my granny
my father’s mother
her love ran out too soon
and he put so many miles and states between them that he has forgotten he even has a mother
and even though i do love my granny
i still hate her for breaking my father in so many ways that he had to smoke and drink out the parts of himself that were too much like her
and even now
with so many states and years between them
that is a kind of hurt that never goes away
and gods sometimes i ask myself why
people have children when they cannot be parents

and maybe that is why she hates me
(the woman that carried me with her
for nine months
and then years after that
who would have gone to the ends of the earth
for me if i had asked her to)
because there is so much of my father in me

i am his son
same hair and glasses and the expressive hands
and the need to be constantly moving
to be heard and seen and to exist
maybe my existence was too loud for her(?)

i have always been his son
even when she did not want me to be
she saw him in my eyes
and i in his
and there was no room for her
because she had left us both years ago
and she resented us for it

because i am not hers
i never have been
with the last name that i am refusing to keep
and the old house-key that i purposely lost
i am my father’s son
and i always will be

(and she resents me for it)
(she hates me for it)
(she tells me it makes me an unloyal son)
(but i am learning not to listen to her anger)

because i am my father’s son
and i always will be

i left some of myself
behind last night
sitting on the edge of my bed
shaking in a batman tee shirt and boxers
the smell of fear wafted off my skin
and when the razor met my flesh
i was surprised that it did not sizzle
or protest in some way
though i suppose that may have been up to me
but i kept going
scratching until i bled
taking off some hair as well
and i wanted to slice right in the middle of my arm
but i was afraid of bleeding out
because right then
i didn’t want to die
i was just tired

You will hold him
cupped in your palms
but this is not beautiful
it is dying
and you can't tell
whose heart is stuttering
but your chests are both heaving
and when he goes still
like the key being yanked
from a wind-up toy
and the light leaves his eyes
you can't help but feel
responsible
for snuffing it out

the witch comes to visit
with soup and a story
sets an old *** on
the bard’s little wood-burning stove
and he watches as she works,
perched on a stool

and the witch, she tells
the bard about the stars,
how they always remember
and live for thousands of years

there is one star in particular
she weaves a tapestry about
with her words,
but only where that star cannot hear
taken by pirate ship upon the waves

she speaks, with something like
fondness and resignation
about how this star,
he fell in love with the moon

and when the moon was
too far for him to follow
his love turned towards the ocean
and how it stretches from
one end of the horizon to the other

the bard knows this star well,
of course, often wakes with him
slumbering still, between the
bard and the closed bedroom door

the witch then asks the bard
what he is tied to
and the bard tells her who
he is anchored to

and, setting a bowl of
soup on the well-worn table,
the witch says, with unmistakable
fondness this time,
“then you are a fool, bard of mine”

the bard nods in agreement,
almost tells the witch he
only eats lunch for her,
but suspects she already knows,
so says instead,
“aye, and a fool in love
is the very worst kind”

and the witch will agree,
because the bard is right

but, she will also tell
the bard how this star,
he loves a man
with scars through his eyebrow
and across the palm of his hand
from building a widow’s walk
with the star’s name on his tongue
the whole time

and there is an honesty
in loving someone to the point
of creation again and again,
is there not?

the moon stayed inside this morning
she must have been
bringing you home

i shower
this is not an unusual occurrence
i like to wash off the ***** feeling
that having nightmares
constantly
night after night brings upon
my body and soul

today i
shower not to cleanse myself
of a person
but to force the feeling of texas dirt
deep into my marred skin
i harshly push the sound
of lightning storms into my eardrums

i let
the stinging nettles
really my own fault for not
wearing boots out in the texas woods
wrap themselves around my sweaty ankles
dragging me deep into the ground
closer to him

though are
you still above ground
my dear uncle
you would think that after all
the funerals i have been to
i would know how
these things work huh

i don’t
want to imagine you cold and alone
in a lifeless and
sterile morgue
so instead i will imagine you at the lake
when you and lana built a treasure chest out of sand

i wonder
if you locked away her heart that day
so that when you had to leave
she would only feel a floating brokenness
like the distant ache of a broken bone
always there
but just in the background

i know
that that is not what my father feels
i remember talking on the phone to you
and answering the phone with hi pops
but then your laugh gave you away
your laughs are different
but they both come from deep in your bellies

if i
could take away my fathers pain
i would and i would
transfer it on to myself
so he could only feel that broken bone ache
because my dear father he went from a whole
to half of a soul

thoughts of sixth grade
brings back
memories of self harm
with that first cut
i thought i was going to die
it bled so ******* much

now i look at
my scarred arm and shoulder
think of how far i have come
and how far i still have to go
but i am getting there
slowly but surely

thoughts of freshman year
brings back
memories of hoarding butter knives in my pockets
a good friend scratching himself until he bled
holed up in the bathroom stall
they were gonna pry them from my cold dead fingers

now i look at
him and how far he has come
the scars on his arms are fading
he looks happy
she makes him happy
and i am happy for him

thoughts of eighth grade
brings back the taste of bile
in the back of my throat
after having not eating all day
and how when he met me the first thing he told me
was that i needed to lose weight

now i look at
that roll around my middle
the aftermath of a cocktail of pills
they help
but is it really worth it
somedays i hate my body
but i am getting better

thoughts of my death
when i took away mama’s little girl
still haunt my mind
i hear the girl’s voice whispering against my spine
running atrophied fingers up and down my back
i wish she would go away and leave me be

now i look at
that boy in the mirror
staring back at me
with the crooked smile and the shaggy hair
and the wide open heart worn upon his sleeve
he is as fragile as me

thoughts of years gone
by and years yet to come
these are the things that keep me up at night
but we have all come so far
never to look back
only look forward
because the future is so bright
and we made it
******
we made it

i know what it’s like
trust me on this one
to be betrayed by your own mind
a handful of pills
morning and then after breakfast
and then after dinner
the dreaded 500 calories needed to
make the magic work
like how am i gonna get skinny
if i eat like this

i’ve been betrayed by
my own hand
when the right took the razor
store bought a dollar a dozen
or filched away in my pocket
but that was only one time
to the left arm
and i cried that first time
but only because of how much it bled
and boy did it bleed

i betrayed myself once
for four years
with every cut and scrape
and lapse and relapse
it never ends
it never ends
until it does
and you don’t know what to do
with yourself
but it does not make you weak

and then i gave
myself up to the wolves
with a handful of pills
choked down with a bubbly water
because i  couldn’t take them with water
to save my life
and i went to sleep that night
fully prepared
not to wake up in the morning
like that old man in the nursery rhyme

i became a master
of faking a smile
but sometimes i over share
and accidentally give people
a glimpse of the shattered pieces
beneath my calm facade
and they either look at me with pity
or back away slowly
i don’t wanna be pitied
but some of them stay

and i understand what
you are going through
because i have been there
in that same hell
since i was twelve
since that first cut
since that first overdose
since that first therapist
since that first hospital visit
but we just need to keep going

we’re alright we’re alright
not because we really are
but because people need us to be
and i am right there beside you
i will hold your hand through the
constant struggle against our own minds
because you will not lose this battle
i understand
i get it
i am here for you

the kids can’t be
alright until people listen to us
take us seriously ******
because this is not a game
nobody willingly picks up the board
they try to throw down the pieces
but they are stuck to our hands
and they won’t come off
this is something you can’t shake off
but we’re alright

I say your name
and my heart becomes
a little kid
pulling me towards the
candy aisle with both hands
ignoring my protests
of no time
no money
and it’s been too long
since I last saw a dentist
so who knows if my teeth
could handle your sweetness

I say your name
and we’re just two
kids in love again
stopping in the middle
of an empty street
to kiss open mouthed
like you are an oxygen tank
and I’m at the bottom
of the deepest ocean

I say your name
and I’m looking at
engagement rings
while calculating costs
and telling the clerk
behind the counter
that I plan to marry you

I say your name
and it is like water
after a hundred year drought
sweet and light
on my tongue

I say your name
I say your name
I say your name
and it’s like coming home

mouthful of cheap beer
gets caught on the
sudden lump in my throat,
bubbles burning all the way
up to my nose

i want to cry,
hot tears burning the backs
of my eyes

maybe throw my head back
and howl mournfully at that
big old moon, always so far away

and i’ve never been much
of a praying man,
but i’d still press my aching knees
into the soft dirt right outside that
lonely little cemetery chapel

and i won’t ask for succor,
have no plans to confess my sins,
just want to pretend for a spell
that i can find comfort in
something greater than myself

and maybe the cold metal
of the handle, that lovely wood grain,
will burn its way into the skin of
my palms when i try to step inside

and maybe i’ll let it,
just this one time

i had a dream that i cut my eyelid in half
and then when i put a gauze piece on it
and taped it up
people kept on pulling it off and poking at
my bleeding eye
and this is what it feels like to be born
and loved
and hated
and told goodbye for the first and last times
just quit poking at my eye
because it ******* hurts
and this is what it feels like to be
in a hospital for the first time
after you have taken forty
of your favorite pills and hoped to never
wake up again
i wasn't even born in a hospital
but man
i don't wanna go back
but what if i need to
does this make me weak
my eye hurts

Love rips out your heart
***** you dry
but the exhaustion is welcome
because it means that you're
still alive

We are ugly
with bitten-down tips
shaking and smeared
rough sides from the constant
indentation of teeth
moles and scars
some on purpose
other paper cuts
litter our surface
we feel and caress
the paper and the pen
the book and the laptop
hangnails caught on fabric
yet still we come back
we are hands
nimble and quick
always hungry to create
wanting more and more
the need to make beautiful
things overwhelms us

sitting on the toilet
taking a ****
because there is no nice way to
say i am emptying my body of the
garbage that i have shoved into
my gaping maw of a mouth
today
tonight
it’s dark out
but i’m not sure what time it is
everything is blurry
my eye is gummy
i can feel the staples
pulling out when i blink
in and out
they stick and unstick
a timeless rhyme
but ******
i saw the vanity scissors
through the slit in the back of the drawer
and i thought of taking them to my wrists
and throat
and thighs
and arms
wondered how sharp they would be
didn’t care what was caked on them
i just wanted to let out
this demon smoke
trapped under my skin
it tries to seep out through my mouth
but gets caught between my teeth
maybe that’s why they have a faint
greyish tinge to them
the red lining isn’t gums anymore
it is simply self hatred and destruction
and the skin of this innocent girl that
i use to floss my teeth with
because you must keep fangs razor sharp
when all you have is nubs for finger tips
and my toes are useless cuz all they
do is crack and splinter and bleed
my fingers fly across the keyboard
but not fast enough
falling behind
slipping on the trail of spilled ink
a purple and pink and red and orange
and cotton candy blue
mess running down my thighs
all i bleed now is a broken string
of i am so ******* sorry

i was an addict at twelve
but it wasn’t a needle that i shoved
up and under my fragile preteen skin
pushing the euphoria in with a single movement

it was a blade that i
pulled across my ****** flesh
splitting the threads that so skillfully
held me all together

it didn’t hurt the first time
boy oh boy did it bleed
through a *** of toilet paper and a washcloth
it was like a period that i could control

and that’s what got me hooked
the pain that i could control
when my life was going down the rabbit hole
i just wanted to feel in control again

i’ve been in therapy since before
i took the scissors to my wrist
had a suicide scare in sixth grade
though back then i didn’t know what suicide meant

i was just a messed up
kid sitting in the counselors office
abused converse scuffing the floor
i poured out my heart to her

it didn’t help the first time
the second went by in a blur
only three appointments
maybe less but he was nice and had kind eyes

i used a variety of instruments
playing the strings of my skin
back and forth with the blade
back and forth

scars layered upon more sloppy scars
my left arm and wrist and shoulder
though that came later when i thought i was being sneaky
were a battle field

it lasted for four ******* years
four long years that nearly killed me
i still wear layers because the paranoia never left
and i still don’t feel beautiful without that familiar stinging

My arms
they are like
train tracks
but the trains have
stopped running
and the path I follow
only leads me further down
and I am so tired

step one:
don’t come out
in any way
keep your mouth shut
about your sexuality and your gender
because really
as you will come to notice
the cuts and scars on your wrists
and the suicide attempts under your belt
will be way more bearable than the disgust
that your mother holds in her eyes
in the downwards tilt of her mouth
when she looks at you

step two:
keep your mouth shut
about everything
even if your mother sees what
you are doing to yourself
how you are slowly whittling yourself
down to the very core of your being
deny the empty pill bottles
and the blood in the sink
a red red ring around the shower drain

step three:
deny everything
the bloodstains on your long sleeves
the sweatshirts and layers upon layers
worn on hundred degree days
all of the empty pills bottles
the alcohol and cigarettes on your breath
the bags under your eyes
hospital bracelets taped into old notebooks
suicide notes hidden inside every word
and every thought and every breath
the urge and the need and the want and the
promise of a sweet darkness
you hunger for it
it courses through your veins

step four:
remember that it is all your fault
it is your fault for being born
for being abused
for more than half of your life
the depression
the anxiety
the insomnia
the self-harm
your mother’s alcoholism
the smell of **** on your clothes
the coffee stains on her teeth
because she needs some kind of drink
just to look at you anymore
it is your fault for wanting to die
it is your fault for being this way
everything is your fault
you are to blame for all the
wrongs that are plaguing this world
and you will spend so many years
and countless sleepless nights
so many hospital visits
and therapists
and pill after pill after pill
trying to fix a body and a mind and a heart
that your mother destroyed

step five:
learn to love yourself
find friends and make them your new family
learn to accept yourself
be proud of your scars
and the bags under your eyes
the ground-down teeth
the shaky hands
because even messy teeth can smile beautifully
and even shaky hands can hold someone tightly
or yourself
don’t be afraid to hold yourself
because sometimes you are all that you have
revel in the feeling of being alone
but rejoice about being with friends
let yourself heal

step six:
remember that you are not a monster
you are a human being
and you do not have to be
your mother’s little boy or little girl
if you don’t want to be
you are not other’s failings
or what has been done to you
these have shaped and molded you
into who you are today
they taught you how to survive
in a cruel cruel world
let your wings grow
so big that they cover you and everyone
and everything that you love and hold dear
hold your own hand
wipe your own tears
but also don’t be afraid to let other people
do those things for you
and most importantly
don’t forget to let yourself live again

i tell you i’ve had a bad day
my depression whacked me
upside the head
and i cried on the bathroom floor

and you share photos
of a quaint forest path
saying that is the real cure for depression
and the pills i take
are a lifelong addiction because
if the pills really did work
then i wouldn’t still be on them
until your fingers ****** bleed

as if my mental illness
is a nasty cold
that requires antibiotics
for about a month
and once i am “better”
i’ll be okay on my own

you treat my pills bottles
like a crutch that makes me weak
like i am a bad person for trying
to live my life worth living
a life which just so happens
to be medicated

and that comes from such
a place of privilege
you and your stupid pictures
of forest paths that have nothing
to do with depression
and anxiety
and screaming hallucinations
that have left me
sobbing on the floor
making myself bleed until
i can tell what’s real again

my mental illness is a chronic thing
even when i am stable
i will never stop being mentally ill
just because i have more good days
than bad doesn’t mean i can cold-turkey
the very things that
keep me functioning
without losing my mind

and when i did try
to go off the meds in high school
you smiled and told me how
brave i was
how strong
how i didn’t need the medication

and days later when i
spent two hours sobbing
until i almost puked
because of the lasagna i had
accidentally burnt to a crisp
you laughed at me
and my tears
and told me to **** it up
to man up
to just be happy

like you telling me to
just be happy
will replace the serotonin my
brain can’t produce enough
of on its own

like you calling me weak
for being on medication
will take away the very real
truth that without
taking those pills every morning
i would have tried to ****
myself again and would
have probably succeeded that time

like you sharing your
pictures of forest paths
and demonstrating your complete
and utter lack of knowledge as to
how medication that isn’t antibiotics works
will suddenly fix
what is broken in my brain

but you take medication
that a doctor prescribes when you
are sick enough for that
to be needed
and nobody calls you weak

and when you break a bone
you get it set in plaster
well i can’t put a cast on
the cracks in my psyche

so i do the next best thing
because if your brain can’t
produce enough serotonin
to keep you wanting to live
all on its own
then store-bought is fine

(and you turning on me
when my mental illness stops
being something i can manage
on my own
says more about you
than it ever will about me)

look at me ******
i am the festering wound
of an abused child
forced to grow up too soon
thrown into adulthood
with nothing but the scars on my arms
and the mean words that you
drilled into my brain
bouncing around the walls of my skull
maybe a drill-bit to the temple
would make them cut it
the **** out
but it would probably be easier
to muster up the guts
to ask my mother
why she resents me so

and my ribs are nothing
but another cage
keeping my heart from leaping out
of my chest
of exploding into a better life
a life without you in it
because *******
twelve years old is way too young
to start cutting myself
i was too naive to even know
or understand that death was
the end of all ends
but now i understand it
all too well
spend my nights
restless in my sweat and blood stained sheets
blankets kicked to the floor
the want to die
the need to feel
those clammy hands wrapped around your throat
long fingers digging into scarred flesh
pulling you into the dirt
with the promise that you will never
have to open your eyes into this nightmare
again

and can you really blame
me for wanting it to
end this way
i always said that i was going to
go out with a bang
but ******
i clipped my wings for you
pushed the fishhooks of your
hugs and goodnight kisses
deep into my feet
through my wiggling toes
rooted myself to the ground
endured it so that you would
leave my little sister alone

what i had was no
childhood it was a ****-poor
excuse for a place to call home
and ****** it still is
but when you look at me
all you see are my flaws
but have you ever stopped to
look in a mirror
because i can assure you
it is not my face that you will find
staring out at you

and i think that
choking down the brightly colored tacks
handful by handful
would be less painful
than you telling me what a failure i am
but i don’t know how to make you understand
when you have known nothing
but a mother and father’s love
it is hard to be shunned by your own family
and i just want it to end
but can you really blame me

look at me goddamit
i am nothing but a walking sore
an open and weeping wound
instead of tears
pus and blood drip down my cheeks
still i paint you the same word
over and over
sorry sorry sorry sorry
i just want you to love me
why do you hurt me so

look at me ******
i am a poster-child
for a missing childhood
because cruel words
and the coldness of soap
bars and liquid
the growing amount of cuts
now faded scars
but still there forever
are all that i know
all that my mother gave me
my self-hatred and destruction are
the blanket i wrap myself in at night
cry into my pillow
so you won’t hear my sobs
and find another reason
to bring out your claws

Last year, when my menstruating was still regular and there was a blood drive at my high school, I couldn't donate because I was anemic. That had happened a couple times before. Heavy flow, not eating enough because of horrible cramps and nausea, I'd lose weight and become an iron lacking zombie with deep circles under his eyes.
Before that, the blood drive, in March when I was at Kerr, I was on my period. That was hell. But, when that stopped, I didn't bleed for a whole year after that. Which of course wasn't good, but I couldn't be bothered to give a **** because it felt so freeing not to have the monthly blood loss and dysphoria hanging over me. I'm never going to have children. At least, not of my own flesh and blood.
My woman's body may be fertile, able to sustain life, but my ****** will remain a barren thing.
And now, I bleed again for the second time this year. My body healed itself of what ever was ailing it, and I am stuck on the couch because it hurts to move and slouching to the side is the only position that will lessen the cramps.
But, the bleeding is slowing and the cramps only come in the morning and at night.
The whole ordeal makes me feel so much older than my almost nineteen years, though.
And it is a terrifying thing to be able to feel myself bleeding, but not being able to stop it.
It comes and goes of its own accord, leaving me sitting in front of the dryer and willing the old machine to go faster because I'm wearing the boxers I slept in last night and I want to shower.
Want to clean myself of the blood, dried and matted in my hair and on my thighs.
I want to listen to loud music while the water turns pink and finally goes back to clear.
I want to clean myself of the shame of not wanting to bear children with my perfectly healthy woman's body.
And instead revel in the freedom I will one day have from this fleshy prison.
Where there will be no more blood, and a scar on my stomach the only sign that I once was able to bring a new life into this world.
And I will not be ashamed.

“you’re a horrible person for not voting”
i know
“it’s a chance for your voice to be heard”
my voice isn’t heard already
so i don’t see the point
and you know perfectly well
what i mean
when i say that

my voice hasn’t been heard
for years
and years
a long **** time
my voice sounds foreign to my own ears
when it is caught in the echo
of someone else’s

but to your government
and your president
i am invisible
i do not exist
i don’t even have a shadow

my people are murdered
and all they get is a hashtag
my people **** themselves
and all they get is a hashtag
all i will get is a hashtag
years and years of life
reduced down to one
#restinpeace

The number of days
means nothing
when one has only been
surviving
for years

I don't think of dying as leaving
more like stepping out for a cigarette
and forgetting to step back in
because I'm still out here
just beyond your blurry eyes
look at me sideways and I shine like a star
but look at me head on and I whither
under your disapproving gaze
please stop looking right through me
I'm afraid of what you may see
when you look beneath the surface
because I'm all jagged edges and ripped pants
scars with the same story
over and over again
ver the course of four years
don't look at me head on
please stop it
I'm just stepping out for a smoke
even though I don't plan on dying of cancer
and this cancer stick will stay unlit
please don't worry about me
I'll be okay
just not today
but maybe in a few years
you're looking through me
and I'm afraid of what you'll see
when I lay my weapons down
collapse into your arms
and cry out all the tears that have been
building up over all these years
I'm afraid of what's inside my head
I don't make my parents proud anymore
I killed their little girl and gave them a stubborn boy
in her place
I hate the girl I used to be
I don't know how to love myself anymore
but maybe if I bare my scars to you
you could try to help me put myself back together again
I know it's too much to ask
so I'll just step outside
you won't see me anymore
unless you look at me sideways
then I will burn like the brightest star for you
I love you

i know things
i feel things
i see things
that no young man
let alone a child
should have been through

but it has left
me with something
besides tracks of scar tissue
and internal organs shot
to hell

call it a super power
a left over
an after shock
but i can see it in their faces
and even if they have laugh lines
and little wrinkles around their eyes
no matter the crinkling
something in their face is just
so **** sinister

and i see them
with their plastic smiles
and their clawed hands
the empty beer bottles
and the ripped up hand-made
cards and pictures
this is no childhood
and i want to run away

i am surrounded by them
these fake people
these picture perfect
skin-deep parents
and suddenly i am
a little boy again

i am so afraid
sleeping under my bed
so i cannot be found
curling up under my desk
biting my knuckles so i do not
make a sound
because no matter how much it hurts
i do not want her
to see me
to hear me

i am only a little boy
smaller than my mother
and she is so tall
i cower in her shadow
shake in the vise-like grip
that she has on my wrists
my upper arms
my shoulders
and the bruises may fade
but the trauma nightmares don’t

i am so scared
my mother is the big bad wolf
she can swallow me whole
her teeth are longer than my arm
and i am so confused
i don’t know why she is so mean
why she hates me so

i am just a little boy
and it all hurts so much
mommy mommy mommy
please don’t hurt me
please don’t yell at me
i can’t just laugh off the bruises
and your angry voice ringing in my ears
mommy mommy
please

at first there was a sea captain
and he could have been lonely
but, surrounded by the great
expanse of the ocean
is one ever really alone?

and then, there was a bard
arguably more of an orator
(though a bard just the same)
for he carried no instrument,
no weapon but his words

and a pretty little dagger
that the captain gave him
tucked into his boot

it does not matter how long
the bard took to get to the captain
all that matters is he
is there now

so bright with all his love
the bard tucks daisies and
dandelions into the captain’s
long and windswept hair

and if the captain’s teeth are
a little crooked and the
bard has scars on wrist
and arm and chest
well, neither of them minds

because the bard will still
make the captain breakfast
and the captain will still
share his flask of ***

and when the captain asks,
voice rough with late nights
and years of salty ocean brine,
“is this a love story?”

the bard will only laugh,
voice free of heartbreak,
knowing the captain will
always belong more to the
ocean than he ever could
to him, and say,
“nay, my captain. it is naught
but a jaunty little tune”

Afraid of the dark
yet I live in
shades of gray

i smell earthy
like wood
and the logs that i brought in
ignoring the shaking in my arms
from all the weight
and i didn’t complain
because the wood chips
and splinters
stuck in my sweatshirt
hide the stench
of unwashed hair and skin
and the ever encompassing
fear

and i wonder why
my fingers and palm are not
big or strong enough
to grasp a log with one hand
and heft it up on top of
the others already held
in my trembling arm
but my hand is big enough
to dwarf a child’s

and warm their small hands
between my own
the way their small fingers
clasp onto mine
make me want to cry
because to be needed
and wanted so desperately
and wholly by someone
is a feeling
that i am not
used to

i am not a cigarette
i will not give you a
multitude of cancers
your teeth and tongue and fingertips
will not be stained by and with me
your clothes will not hold my smoke
like your blackened lungs
in and out
i am not the tobacco you breathe
like the air is not good enough for you
i am so much worse than that

i am not a razor blade
i will not give you rows upon
rows of neat little cuts
i am not the reason your hand holds
steady enough to carve those
straight lines
like train tracks
into your skin
until they become your impenetrable armor
layers and layers
i am not your addiction
i am so much worse than that

i am not a bottle of pills
i will not give you a false sense
of medicated calm
or the hollow of a stomach empty feeling
when you are bent over the toilet
at four in the ******* morning
spewing your guts up and against
and all the way into
a white porcelain bowl
this whiteness will be more stark than
your skin when the sun does not touch it
brighter than the walls of the hospital
the sinks and the toilets and the shower stalls
and even the towels
this is the whitest white you will ever see
i am not the things you do that make you sick
i am so much worse than that

i am not the empty beer cans
along with the empty promises
of just one more
it’s always the same with you
but us humans are a pathetic bunch
destroying ourselves and then turning
to a story book deity to wash us of
our sins and wrong-doings
and make us whole and good and clean again
i have never been the beer on your breath
or the only thing in your stomach that day
i cannot make you drunk
i am not the reason why you get ****-faced
i am so much worse than that

i am none of these things
these vices and addictions
i am so much worse than those
i will fill your head with my breathe
the smell of day old sweat and self loathing
i will make you want to live ******
we will make half empty promises to
throw away our blades together
until my mom found mine
and i wondered where you disappeared off to
i will not make you puke
up anything but your lies and fears
i will wrap them in bubble-wrap and rub down
all their jagged edges until you can no longer
feel them jabbing into your lungs
and vocal cords
keeping you from asking for help
and oh baby
i can make you feel so much better
or worse than any type of alcohol ever can
i can get you drunk off my skin
the soft curves of my waist
and my pillowy thighs
i am worse than any story book
hero or villain or otherwise
because when the lights get turned on
and the closet gets checked for monsters
i do not go away
you think of my always and every day
my name is constantly on the tip of your tongue
and i know how you long to wrap your
arms around me and hold me close

you see i am worse than
all these things
because
i have a heart beat

Something that really disgusts, and ruins shows for me, is when the writer's resort to demonizing transgender people as a shock factor. This has happened in Criminal Minds, and X-Files, and most likely a lot of other shows I've watched, that I don't care to remember right now. It is literally just so tactless, and horribly transphobic, and, for some of us, it can be triggering. I am not a monster. My brothers and sisters are not monsters. But, how we are treated by the media, THAT IS MONSTROUS. I am not a shock factor or a scare tactic. I do not go bump in the night. I am up close and personal. I am real. I am a human being, too. And, most of all, I am sick and tired of crap like this happening. It all leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

in the car
sat next to my mother
sweating along to the country songs on the radio
my toenails scrape against the bottoms of my shoes
as i scuff the them against the worn carpeting
the car smells like very berry hibiscus
and black coffee that reminds me
of a place before they were gone

at the cemetery
it feels wrong to be alive
and i make sure not to step
directly onto the headstones
because the horror movies always warn
me of hands coming up through the dirt

but i can’t
help but to think of how nice
it would be to be held by my great grama
one last time
even if i got dirt in my eyes
it would be nice to see her again

i’m sorry that
i didn’t go near her coffin
i remember his funeral too
though i don’t know how many years ago
it happened to be
i cried the hardest
and i remember at her funeral
how my mom and sister were talking about how
proud they were that neither of them cried
like i did
and i felt small and weak and childish
but also
painfully human

i find that
it is easier to think of the cemetery
as more of a library for the dead
because most of them are as old
as the dewey decimal system
and i’m just pawing through the card catalogs
looking for a hand to hold

your parents are
under the c category
c for classen
c for caring
c for compassion
c for clarity
c for cherished memories
c for come back

I have
again and again
some have dropped it
others have taken off
small pieces
and I forgot to ask
for them back
maybe they needed the pieces
more than I did

But then you were there
and when my chest
cracked wide open to
let you in
my heart was not
dropped for the first time
in years

Thank you

i will render you
in word
in ink
in the trembling of my hands
and the racing of my heart beat

you will be sculpted
in the most loving way
taking extra care on
your pretty eyes
and soft lips
and crooked teeth

i want your grin to
be a mirror image of
the one that feels saved
just for me
but that’s probably silly

if you’ll allow me
i’m gonna draw forth all
the beauty i see in you
so maybe you’ll see it too

all the love i harbor
for you
shining through
my fragile and human ribs
parting like tree limbs
for this bright light

we can stand under
this burning sun together
you and i, lover

and i will render you
with all the care and tenderness
these shaking hands of mine
are capable of

won’t admit to being
a good man, if that’s
something i’ve ever
really been

but, oh, i’ll admit
to being selfish in
a heartbeat

i want, and
i crave, and
i yearn

and i’m just a
love letter to you,
in a language that you
can’t yet read

and that’s okay,
because the love,
well, it’s still there

this torch i’ve been
carrying for you,
this candle i’ve been
burning at both ends

surely the sun must still
rise, cast warm light on
the darkest and most jagged
parts of me

let me be your first
port in a storm

let me be selfish,
just a little while longer

munching on blueberry poptarts
watching buzzfeed videos
putting off writing
about you and
your book
which
i made it through ten pages
before i started to cry
and i felt your pain
all around me
like a suffocating blanket
and i felt like i did when
i overdosed
last year
well
kind of like that
my teeth were chattering
they still are
my heart was beating
really **** fast
and i was sweating and shaking
the birds under my skin were trying to
fly south
for warmer climates
i cried for you
for debra
for rayni
for all the people that are gone
way too soon
without a goodbye
and the footprints that your family
have left on my heart
are a mile deep in
every direction
i have cracks pointing in all the
cardinal directions
but none of them can find her
and bring her home
and i am truly sorry
and yes i know that you should never
start a sentence with and
but that is the word that my brain
my addled mind
so often gets stuck on
and and and
i am sorry
ty my aunt’s doggy
he came and kept me company
swinging back and forth
out in the hammock
cursing the bright morning
sun that assaulted me eyes
drying my tears on my cheeks
like little salty crystals
ty would come over every few minutes
in the hour or so that it took me to
finish your book
and he would nudge up against me for pets
i got dirt from his coat on some of the pages
now there are parts of both of us
intermingled with your intense pain
reading your book made me want to
put on pants
and get my life in order
but the hammock and the breeze
so cool and cold after so many days of heat
kept me rooted
lounging
smothered in a pain that is not my own
your book made me want to pray
go the whole nine yards and get down
on my knees
but all i do
when i pray
is yell at the sky
and swear loudly for all the injustices
in this ****** world
there are bruises and scratches
self inflicted in my sleep
littered about my arms
but i don’t count this as self harm
because there was no cruel intent
behind it
and after reading your book
i know that you know what it feels like
to take it out on yourself
and that scares me
because i’ve always thought of you
as a pillar of strength
but i guess that growing up
is watching your heroes turn human
but i know what it feels like
to take out the pain and hurt and blame
on your self
it’s what i did for four **** years
but it is not your fault
it is not your fault
and i know that i’m just a dumb kid
but i know
in my heart of hearts
that it is not your fault
it is not your fault

you are more threatened by
my existence than you give yourself
credit for

and honestly that just baffles me
because i have a hard time killing spiders
and loud noises make me jump

but you don’t care about that
you just care about what you think
is in my pants
and the fact that the gender that is on
my birth certificate is different than
what i was assigned at birth
and my name is different too

but you don’t even care why
and even if you do
it is likely just a farce to give you
more reasons that in your mind
qualify me as a freak and a monster
and a horrible person that is willingly
mutilating the body that god gave me

well god has never had ears for me
and i do pray
i promise that i do
and never mind that it’s usually swearing
but if there really was a god
i like to think that he wouldn’t have stuck me
in a body that i have spent more time
wanting to destroy than actually living in

and i still don’t know
what about that
threatens you in any way
but you sure do feel threatened enough
to **** my brothers and sisters
with guns and knives and
your cruel words
over and over again

and not all of us are old
though 20 in the life of a trans person
could be considered old
since the chances of being murdered
jump a whopping 1%
to transgender individuals having a
1 in 12 chance of being murdered
and a 1 in 8 chance if they are a trans
person of color

and a good number of those people
are children and younger than
your sister or brother
who may be 14 or 12
there are so many deaths
every year
and the only reason that is given
is they were transgender
they were everything but white
and cisgender and heterosexual

so again i will ask
what about my existence makes you feel
so threatened that you think it is okay
to **** me for no other reason than
my daring to live as a male
instead of dying as a woman

be aware of me
be afraid of me
be terrified ******
look at me
from a safe distance
i am the open wound of child abuse
though i am no longer a child
it has not yet stopped
i was left alone
and now i am not only an open wound
but a rotting and festering wound

look at me
but do not make a sound
do not breathe
do not even say a word
i do not want your apologies
or your ******* excuses
because i know that you saw the
cuts and the blood
the bags under my eyes
and eventually the jutting bones of my hips
my ribs
like cage bars
struggling to rip through stretched taut skin
the bumps of my spine
and you did not hug me anymore
perhaps you were afraid of hurting yourself
on my sharp edges

and i got so cold
all skin and bones
mostly bones at that point
even a hand to the hot burner
did nothing to stem the chill
and my stick thin arms
elbows like bowling *****
could not wrap around myself
hard enough and close enough
to chase away the icy winds
i shivered for so long
but you took no heed

i am still shivering
but now i have become accustomed
to it
it is all i know
so now
i do nothing to stop the chill

I will do this
even though
her skin burns my lips

for when I kiss
the stars mapped out
on her skin

she lights up like
the sun on a cloudy day

and my heart soars like
a bird to be burned up
by her light

1.Time is man-made
2. Gender is a social construct
3. You paid fifty dollars for glorified rubber and fabric
4. Shut up

The cradle
his home
made from coat hangers
stray hairs from pink plastic brushes
and twigs and sticks
pressed up against his mother
sharing her warmth

One day though
he wakes up
mother gone
and no home left
down on the ground
instead of up in the trees

Little bird is so cold
and all alone

Honey Bear came home today.
I am still in awe that somebody who was so big in my life and in my eyes can be made so small.
The box that she came home in is on her bed with a piece of bacon, a card, and her paw print.
I can’t bring myself to write happy poetry about her.
It’s still too soon.
Dear god, it’s too soon.
I need my friend, my confidant, my sister, my family, back.
Bring her back.
You give her back.
You vulture.
I know that she was sick.
And in pain.
But it’s still so hard to let someone so dear to you go.
That **** dog.
We’ve all cried as much as we did at Great Grama’s funeral.
Every day I am greeted by her empty bed.
I still expect her to come limping into my room, nudging the door open and laying down.
I have dreams where I stand at the door and call her name over and over again.
I wait for hours for her to come back.
But she never heeds my call.
Though, she never was good at listening.
And I think that maybe, if I get mom to call her name, she will come.
And I think, maybe, if I help mom search for her, we will find her, happy and healthy again.
Because moms can find anything and everything.
But what happens when she can’t find the pieces of your heart that Honey Bear took with her?